


It's Compliacted

by peachykeenxx



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26495902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachykeenxx/pseuds/peachykeenxx
Summary: Can Frank ever let himself fall in love again? Can Billy let his past go? Can Tasiya change the trajectory of her future? It's complicated.*Warning: This work will contain descriptions of graphic violence, suicidal ideation, abuse, and sex.





	It's Compliacted

There is a sharp, sharp breeze that feels like paper cuts that February night in Chicago. The moonlight is hidden away behind an array of clouds, frothy like the milk in a cappuccino. A pair of cold hands is tucked into the pockets of a flimsy green jacket belonging to a woman with pink, pink cheeks. Her eyes clench as she feels the wind slash across her pale, dry skin. She lets out a heavy breath - hot from ethanol - as she silently thanks herself for drinking enough to keep her body warm that night. There is no happy drunken stupor, but there is a sense of being content settling within her as she makes her way down the street to an old motel.

The crunch of the freshly fallen snow beneath her boots is muffled by the sound of fists colliding against faces. Ignore it, she thinks to herself. There is a whisper in the back of her mind that tells her to keep moving, but the groans (that grow louder with every hit) make her stop dead in her tracks. "Go!" she can hear the demand through what she's sure sounds like a mouth full of blood. The woman lets out a sigh, and with it that ease she felt moments before. She looks up to the sky, confirming that - for her at least - the world is spinning much faster than it was earlier that day. She wants to walk away. There is a feeling deep within the marrow of her bones telling her to walk away, but on instinct she is inching closer to the whispers, her body pressed up against vehicles until their bodies come into view. 

Her heart is racing. She should turn away while she can. Still, a man is pounding his fist into the face of another, and, instinctively, she pulls the pistol from her hip whilst leaning onto an old dirty SUV for some much needed steadying. Voices in the back of her head are screaming at her. Aim and shoot. AIM AND SHOOT. She flinches. Eyelashes lathered with mascara flutter as she hesitates. 

She pauses, watching the stranger throw fist after fist. His hands perpetually collide with the other man's face, which is well lathered with blood by now. Her finger hovers over the trigger. 

She pauses again, but only for a second this time. 

"Fuck!" emits like a hiss from the man's lips, barely audible after the boom of her bullet in the dead silent night. She squints for a moment in attempt to make out the face, but her hazel eyes barely catch him reaching for his shoulder before a fist collides with his face one final time, promptly sending him to the ground. A high-pitched gasp resounds, pulling her eyes in every direction as she searches for the source. A pair of sparkly heels standing on the other side of a car is visible from beneath it, and she scolds herself for not noticing them before.

She debates about running, but the man left standing is beaten, and the terrified girl is weeping obscenely. A groan pulls her eyes from the feet in stilettos and back to him. Clad in all black, he is wearing boots much like her own. She watches as he stumbles in attempt to catch his balance, almost tripping over the body of the man he just took down with her help. 

The woman is shaking. Her pistol is pointed square at him only 20 meters away, but the world is still spinning, and he's already incapacitated. Unwilling to listen to herself, she's become his accomplice. Still, he could be the aggressor, and they've both seen her face already. Then a whisper in the back of her mind reminds her these are civilians, and she is not at war, so she gulps as she tucks her gun away. The boots on her feet tiptoe so softly that to a bystander she looks as if she's gliding across the snow. 

An eerie weariness settles into her belly as she moves closer, but he never averts his eyes toward her. She watches him bang his already bloody fists into the hood of the Cadillac next to him. The terrified girl who screamed earlier is in full view now. Her blonde mane frizzing up into a mess, make-up running down her face, as she struggles to catch her breath. She couldn't be more than 18, the woman decides, and her eyes shift back to him - earning her a wave of dizziness.

The man is panting. For a moment she thinks she can hear him growl, but she dismisses the thought due to how ridiculous it sounds. Her eyes drop to the body on the ground, noticing the rise and fall of her victim's chest before admiring the hole her nine millimeter round left in his leather jacket. She squats down to check a reflex (almost proud when there is none) before standing back up on her feet. She's trying her best to hide her drunkenness, but she's sure anyone can smell it off the cold sweat on her skin. 

"What didn't you understand about 'go' the first hundred times?!" The raspy shout catches the woman off guard, and for a moment she feels a wave of vertigo overcome her again. It's only a few seconds until she can see almost straight, but she gulps at the sight before her. The man, only a car's length from her, is so close to the terrified girl's face now that his blood is dripping on her blue silk dress. This time she is sure he is growling.

The voices in the woman's head are melding together, pulling her in different directions. Suddenly, her legs are confident now as she places herself (with ease) in between the standing bodies. This is a mission, and if she wants it cleaned up she's going to have to do it herself. She is wedged in the middle now, pressed up against him much closer than she thought she'd ever be. Her hand is no longer shaking as she sets it on the girl's naked arm, giving her a nod with pursed lips. She can see the blonde gulp in fear. There is a moment of hesitation in the girl's eyes, a last tear, before she turns to flee - her shoes clacking loudly with every step. The woman stands and listens until the sound disappears, fading far enough into the night that it can't reach them anymore. Then, a pair of already too close hands grabs her waist, and the confidence is gone again, but only for a moment until she realizes it is only he trying to steady himself. She doesn't know if he's just drunk, or if that brain of his has been jumbled one too many times, so she sighs and hopes that she's about to do the right thing. 

"Come on," she instructs, sliding back to position herself under his only good arm now. If she was hoping to get a good whiff of man, then she was out of luck because the only scent emanating from him is old dried blood and sweat.

The walk to the motel is quiet. It's thankfully short too, because her mystery man is as heavy as he looks. The shuffling of their feet together is pronounced, louder than the police sirens in the distance that they're running from. She follows already made tire tracks through the snow, anxious about leaving new ones for the authorities to follow. He is surprisingly quiet save for the occasional muffled grunts, and she is grateful for that too.

He can tell that his savior is struggling, but Frank is doing his best - and it seems that involves holding onto her for dear life. I can do this on my own, he thinks, but he can feel the pang of his dislocated shoulder, the probably broken nose, and the dizziness of his vision all telling him to just take the help. There is blood in eyes, leaving a dull burning sensation, but he can still see the Glock holstered to her hip when she goes to grab her keys from her pocket. 

"To the bathroom," she instructs, wanting as little evidence of blood in there as possible. She rolls her eyes when she feels him begin to pull away. He's not holding on to her anymore. He's frustrating, the way he doesn’t wait for her help, she thinks to herself as she reaches back to lock the door behind them. Following him through the room she grabs what looks like a small makeup bag along the way, then takes her place against the doorframe to watch him struggle to wash his face. 

"That was one hell of a shot," Frank finally voices what's been on his mind during their entire bout of silence. His one good hand is on the knob of the faucet, shutting off the scorching hot water as his eyes fix on her through the mirror. He can tell that his face is still bleeding, but he's more interested in who the girl that lets a strange bloody man into her hotel room is. If only his brain would let him focus.

"You got lucky. I figured you were pretty much dead so if I missed and hit you instead, oh well," she shrugs it off, but her arms are crossed in front of her chest, and she can feel how bloodshot her eyes are from the liquor. "Sit down," she tries to divert his attention by getting in front of him and pushing him down onto the toilet seat. 

"I can do that myself," he tries to swat her hands away, but she gives him a look so stern that he can only sigh in return. He lets there be another moment of silence. Concentrate, Frank. She's not just an ordinary girl passing through with a gun in her purse. There's more to this story, he's just not sure if he wants to hear it. He finds himself looking up. Her eyes are focused, but he can smell the liquor on her breath no matter how hard she tries to hide it. There's a single moment that he catches himself starting at her lips - the way her teeth sink into the bottom one to be exact - but he clears his throat before forcing himself to look away. "Not a typical choice of weapon for a woman," Frank mumbles angrily as he redirects his attention to the shoes on her feet. He's still irritated by her insistence to clean up his wounds. 

"Saw a guy sellin' them once when I was passing through the West side," she says, refusing to make eye contact. Her fingers are working the gauze delicately along his face with concentration, but she talks to him in attempt to control the direction of conversation. "He gave it to me for half the price in exchange for a kiss." There is a lasting smirk on her face as she speaks because she's wondering if the thought makes him uncomfortable, at least in his vulnerable woozy state.

He pretends like he's not thinking about kissing her right then. Instead he returns his attention to the topic, thinking about how it's probably one of the easiest guns to buy on the street. Very common. Harder to trace back to a source. It's not unlikely that she's telling the truth, but he's trained to doubt. "Just selling a box of them in broad daylight huh?" Frank is being smart as he tilts his head up, avoiding her gaze as much as her lips. His blurry vision lingers on her brown locks that cascade down her shoulders toward her breasts. 

"Never said it was daylight." Another smirk plays on her face as she applies some ointment to the wounds, still struggling to appear sober. "I'm a midnight marauder as much as you," she jokes. 

"Marauder?" Frank questions, not even realizing that she's pulled his attention away from the half decent view of her tits. He can believe it though. A pretty woman usually doesn't have a hard time getting the upper hand on most. He glazes over that last thought in his mind once again. It's been a long time since he's been with a woman, he thinks to himself as his calloused hand reaches up on instinct to grab ahold of his ring.

"I'm a woman traveling the states all by my lonesome. You don't think I need a gun?" She allows herself to chuckle, but she doesn't fail to notice that the man is fiddling with a ring strung on a chain around his neck. 

"A woman with so much luck that she can make shots like that while drunk? I don't think you need a damn thing, darlin'," he chuckles back, hand dismissively falling to his lap as he purses his lips. Maybe she did just get lucky, and now he wonders if there is way that he could get lucky too.

She ignores his statement asking, "you married?" A butterfly or two flutters in her belly at the thought of having the guts to say such a thing to a stranger. That was some good tequila.

"Was." 

She waits for a moment, but it's all Frank says in response. "You're nose isn't broken," she tells him as she begins to pack up her kit up. When he doesn't say anything to that either, she moves on to his arm. "Okay. On three," she instructs grabbing a hold of his shoulder. Her hands are fire hot against his skin, and she's ready to get this over with. 

Frank lets out an inaudible sigh. She's not the one that gets to ask questions - that's what he does. He almost finds himself regretting that he allowed her to drag him here. He's a little lost inside his thoughts, but when he feels her fingers against his shoulder he almost lets out a gasp. He's waiting for her to talk, but when she says nothing he gives her a nod to let her know he's ready. His gaze focuses on her ruby red nails, looking for shapes in the chipping tips. 

The woman is sure he doesn't need an explanation. He looks like he knows what she's about to do. "1," she beings the countdown. 

Frank clutches his fists in anticipation. He's had a dislocated joint before, and it ain't something to celebrate.

"2." 

She doesn’t move on two, and he's confused. His eyebrows being to furrow wondering who the fuck actually waits 'til 3. 

"3." 

"Are you gonna do this or -" his frustration is cut off by a pain radiating through his arm and chest. 

"Two doesn't catch you off guard when you know it's coming," she says as-a-matter-of-factly. 

Frank huffs angrily, but he's at a loss for words.

"You hungry?" Is her next question. She allows a smile to creep along her face when she sees his brown eyes staring up at her in disbelief. She watches his eyelashes flutter repeatedly, and she can tell that he's dizzy. 

Frank clenches his eyes shut. His head is throbbing. "Come on," he hears her say again, and his mind flashes back to the scene where everything was spinning, and he was covered in blood, but she was there saying the same thing - asking him to come along.

"Hey, what’s your name?" The woman is squatting now in attempt to make eye contact. 

"Pete," Frank groans, ignoring the numbing of his legs from the toilet seat.

"Can I walk you to bed so you can rest for a little while, Pete?" Her hand is on his good shoulder, rubbing in attempt to keep him alert. 

Frank doesn't say a word. He can feel his body stand up, but he knows he's putting most of his weight on her. There are only a few steps to take before he is sitting, then lying. It's all a blur.

She plants herself right next to him in an old, raggedy, orange armchair facing the bed. Her legs cross as she leans back. The comfort doesn’t last long. The spring of the cushion is stabbing her in the shoulder blade so she scoots her butt forward, slouching, before reaching a hand to push a strand of dirty brown hair behind her ear. 

"Turn on the TV or something," Frank sighs. It's strange. He couldn't wait for her to shut up, but now he feels like his head is pounding from the silence in there. When she doesn’t move he opens his eyes, turning his head to look her way. She looks like shit too. He keeps her gaze for a moment before looking away to examine the specs on the wall - anything for a distraction. The motel bed sheets are scratchy against his skin, and there's a smell of mildew he could live without in there. 

She doesn't know how much time passes. Can't be more than five minutes, but she can tell he's getting fidgety. "I'm Tasiya," she says softly, careful not to disturb him too much. To her surprise though Pete hops to his feet like a reflex, hobbling as quickly as he can toward the door. His breaths are heavy as he walks, his nose and head probably throbbing still. "Where the hell do you think you're going?!" she jolts up just as quickly in attempt to block his way. A stern look adorns her face as her eyes bore up at him. 

"I ain't getting involved with no Russians," Frank's words, though weak, have a bite to them. He's looking her dead in the eye, the anger burgeoning in his belly. 

Bodies bathed in blood flash before her eyes for a moment, and almost as if she's in a trance she says, "neither am I." 

Frank is surprised by her words. He's squinting now, contemplating what he'll do next because the world is still fuzzy, but when she cracks open the door to leave, slamming it behind herself, he's even more shocked. He stands there for a moment until the smoke of something burning creeps from the cracks of the door and up to his nose. When he opens it, she's standing there with a cigarette in her hand, and he shakes his head. "Are you always this dramatic?" 

"Me? I came outside for a cigarette. You're the dramatic one. Ready to leave at the sound of name," she rolls her eyes at him, smoke trailing every word.

She's a fucking spy, Frank thinks. A Russian woman with a gun in Chicago killing strangers? Something fucking stinks about this. "Those make you sick," Frank tells her, shutting the door behind him. He's watching her take a long drag, arms crossed in front of his chest and a scowl on his face - noting the way she flinched when the door scrapped against its frame. 

"Oh yea? Well maybe I don’t care." Her remark is snide, and she can see his head fall from the corner of her eye. His hair is matted with dried blood. Her eyes dance over it before they travel down to his combat boots. She's not suicidal, not directly at least, but she knows statements like that succeed in making everyone uncomfortable. 

Frank finds himself staring at his feet too. This is a real conversation, and he doesn't know how to have those. He doesn't know how to not be the one someone else feels sorry for. So he nods. With one step, he traverses the dirty creaking floor boards beneath their feet and reaches his hand out, taking the cigarette from between her lips. 

Tasiya is about to protest. How dare he? Who does he think he is?! She just met him, and he's going to judge her? She saved him, and he's going to deprive her? She's angry. She doesn't take orders from a civilian. Then Pete surprises her when he brings the cigarette to his own lips, taking a hit before placing it back between hers before she can even speak. 

"Why did you help me?" Frank asks. He leans against the dusty siding of the motel as he blows the poison from his lungs with a cough. He's not a smoker, but maybe that was his way of saying sorry. He knows what it feels like - not caring if you live or die anymore. 

Tasiya lets out a heavy sigh, already preparing a snippy comment. She takes in the way the street lights in the distance make his eyes glisten. Beads of sweat still trail down his forehead, and she feels her stomach drop. "You needed it." She concedes. She wishes she could give him a better answer. She obviously doesn't make the best decisions under the influence, but that wouldn't be the right thing to say. She acted on instinct. That isn't the right thing to say either. 

"I woulda been fine." Frank is stubborn. She's being dramatic again, he thinks. He had the situation under control. Yea. He would've been fine. 

"Maybe. Thank whatever the hell you believe in that I was there, and we didn't have to find out," she spits back. He could be more grateful. She saved his life. Fuck. She is being dramatic. She's not drinking tequila anymore. Too many emotions. She fiddles in her pockets only to light another cigarette. 

"You're trying to tell me that you knew I was the good guy?" Frank asks curiously. His eyes are watching her intently, trying to dissect every action - if his brain would let him focus. Things are muddling. Things are blurring. He doesn't know how long he'll stay awake for, but he needs to be sure she wont kill him when he's out. 

"Good guy? I don’t know," she says, looking down at her feet. A cloud of smokes crawls its way from between her lips. "Is anyone really a good guy?" For a split second she can feel herself shooting her rifle at bodies already covering the ground. Absolutely no more tequila.

"Jesus!" Frank says with a chuckle. "So fucking melodramatic!" 

Tasiya takes one last inhale before she throws the butt of the cigarette on the ground, the Doc Marten's on her feet crushing the cherry as she tries to keep her drunken dizziness under control. "I just know he was beating the shit out of you. Figured now he'd have a hard time beating up anybody," she says, watching the smoke leave her body with every word.

Frank goes from 0 to 100 in an instant. He is huffing, and there is an ache in his right shoulder that persists, but he's got this woman pressed up against the wall. Her silky smooth hair is rubbing all over the dirty yellow paneling, and her eyes are shut in fear. He can see that she's struggling to breathe with his forearm to her throat when he asks, "who the hell are you?" 

Tasiya is pissed. She's drunk. She should've went to sleep instead of having late night conversations with a probable criminal. She slipped up, but she didn’t realize until it was too late. She can't seem to find the appropriate line between a solider and a civilian. He knows that shot was purposeful now - accurate - and he's not going to let it go. She groans at the pain in her neck, grimacing as her eyes shut. 

"If the Russian's sent you, I'm gonna cut both of your fucking arms off and send you back so they know Frank fucking Castle can't be tricked by a idiot with tits," he shouts so loud that she can hear his voice echo in the distance. His spit lands on her porcelain skin that seems to turn a shade paler with every word, but he doesn’t let up. 

Tasiya's eyes bolt open. "I told you, Frank," she keeps her tone even - save for the new name she just learned - while pushing against his arm to show him she's not scared. She's furious, but it's her own fault, and she can't afford to slip up again. "I don’t work for any fucking mob. Get your fucking hands off me." She shoves him. She's surprised that he lets her, because if she's honest she knows she can't take him in a fair fight. Whatever he's got against the Russians, she understands. Still, she's not exactly in a position to concede those details. 

Frank sighs as she slams the door shut behind her. Neither of them were in the appropriate state of mind for this. He's so far gone that he told her his fucking name, and now it's over. If she turns him in, there'll just be more chaos. There's a panic growing in his belly, and only moments pass before Frank is heaving over, vomit at his feet. 

There is a gentle shuffling carried by the wind before the door opens and the Russian steps out with pursed lips and a quiet sigh. She watches Frank fucking Castle stand himself up and wipe his face before spitting over and over - anything to get that bitter taste out of his mouth. 

"You only took one drag you lightweight," Tasiya jokes as she places a hand on his back. She knows it's not the cigarette making him sick. He has a concussion, and that's the only thing keeping her around. This man is a killer too, and being next to him makes her queasy, but if she leaves him she's not sure how far he'll make it.

"Im fine," Frank attempts to sound stern, but it comes out in a groan. He's not fine, and he knows it. There's no way in hell he's going to let some strange ass Russian chick that just shot a random man in front of him know that. 

"Alright well let's at least go inside then," Tasiya says waiting for him to take his first step before she moves. Frank says nothing, but she can tell he wants to roll his eyes at her. He lets her nudge him fairly easily past the doors threshold - much to her surprise. "You can take the bed tonight," she tells him as she unties her boots, leaving them at the door. 

"I'm not staying here," Frank's voice is gruff as he speaks. He still doesn't trust her, especially now that it's evident that she's a trained killer. 

"You're not staying here?" Tasiya asks in surprise. Her eyebrows rise as she looks his way in shock of his stubbornness. His face is bruised now, hues of purple littering it. Through the pain of it he is frowning, wiping the salty sweat off his brow. 

"I got a fucking mess to clean up." Frank growls. His eyes dart around for his jacket, beating himself up for being unable to remember where he left it. There is a pang in his head that he's trying to ignore as his eyes trail over the dusty old furniture. 

"A mess?! Leave the body. They’ll never find us."

Frank's eyes dart over, a serious look on his face. "No. That shit is not my mess. That’s your fucking mess, and it got in the way of mine."

"Frank," she lets her voice rise in a strange sense of desperation. She watches him turn around to leave again. "Frank, you just had a concussion!" Her words demand him to look at her so she can convince him to at least stay the night because he's not okay. 

"Yea, and how would you know?" He turns around his tone is angry, red like lava because she's a liar. He's going to have to find out who she is one way or another, the least she could do is make it easy for both of them. 

Tasiya can feel herself blush. He's face to face with her now, and she can feel the tickle of his breath on her cheeks. In this moment his anger seems enough to trigger a hefty reading on the Richter scale. She can almost feel his eyes drilling into her, and - wow - she cant seem to muster up a goddamn word in response. 

"Huh? Well?" Frank doesn’t back down. "You been talking all night so why don’t you open your damn mouth now?!" He's not sure if it's just the rasp in his voice, but he can feel the buzzing in the back of his brain, maybe from the top, or maybe that’s just his ears ringing, or his eyes being blanketed by stars.

Tasiya falls back onto the bed with a grunt. She's clutching at the body on top of her, heavier than she remembered him. "Frank," she groans out, nudging and nudging. "Fucking hell! Frank!" She raises her voice. It's futile. He's out. She lies there for a moment, listening to his breaths even out before wiggling herself out from under him. She chuckles at the positioning of his body, contemplating on leaving him half off the mattress for a good laugh in the morning. Then, with a roll of her eyes, she grabs his legs and swings them over before sitting down on that uncomfortable arm chair thinking at least she won that argument.


End file.
